The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen (1272 page)

Amby Bole's face was almost unrecognizable. ‘This is bad magic,' he said.

‘Save Faint! Save her!'

But the man shook his head. ‘No one can live in there.'

‘Save her, Amby! For my love – save her!'

His frown deepened, his eyelids suddenly fluttering, and he met her eyes. ‘What?'

‘You want me? I'm yours, damn you – just save Faint!'

Bole threw her down, visage darkening. ‘All the fun ended with you! I don't want you, witch! I don't ever want to see you again!'

Precious stared up at him, and then she snarled. ‘I will chase you, Amby! I'll hunt you down, no matter where you go! Year after year, I will follow you, I swear it! There's nowhere you can run to – you understand me? Nowhere!'

‘I hate you!'

‘The only place you could hope to escape me – is
there
!' and she pointed at that billowing cloud of blood now obscuring Faint and Aranict.

Amby made an animal cry, spun and ran heavy-footed – straight into the crimson cloud.

Precious Thimble fell back.
Gods below but that man is stupid!

 

‘Hold on, my love,'
whispered a voice close to Faint's ear.
‘Some laws even an Elder God cannot easily defy. But he's trying.'

Faint felt the life leaving her. She was lying against the legs of Aranict – she could feel them cold as bars of ice. Were her eyes open? All she could see was the redness of her own blood. ‘Sweetest, is that you?'

‘Always knew you had a romantic streak. What a thing to do!'

‘I'm dying.'

‘Looks like it. Regretting your moment of madness?'

Faint shook her head – or tried to. ‘Only if it fails.'

‘Well, how often do we regret successes?'

‘Is it enough, Sweetie? It's all I have.'

‘You're in water, fool, of course it looks like a lot – and if you stay in here any longer you'll bleed out for sure. Now, wish I could help you – wish I could help both of you, but I'm just a ghost. Well, not even that. Could be I'm just a voice in your head, Faint, born out of some bizarre misguided guilt.'

‘Oh, thanks for that.'

A foot slammed into the side of her head, half stunning her, and she struggled feebly as hands groped across her body, briefly closing on one of her tits before moving on – and then back again for a second squeeze.

Abruptly someone was lifting her from the muddy silts, throwing her over one bony shoulder. She felt one hand clutch and then leave her thigh, felt the fingers brush her knee as the arm reached out.

A deep grunt seemed to thrum through Faint, and she felt the stranger's feet slip suddenly, as if pulled by some inexorable pressure – and then the heels planted firm, and – impossibly – she felt him heave back against the current. One step, and then another. Another…

Amby Bole reappeared from the crimson cloud, Faint hanging limp over one shoulder. His other arm was stretched back behind him, and Precious saw him strain, saw him leaning hard, and then out from the cloud emerged Aranict, held by the back of her collar, and after her – the naked form of Brys Beddict.

The cloud erupted, burst apart in a welter of icy water.

The four figures fell to the ground, Faint rolling out almost to the witch's knees. Precious Thimble stared down, saw the blood still pumping from the woman's slashed arms. She closed trembling hands on both wrists, healing spells tumbling out on her breath.

Soldiers were rushing up. Shouts filled the air.

Precious Thimble's hands tightened on the wounds, but now there were only scars beneath her palms, and she could feel Faint's pulse.
But…gods, it's there – I can feel it. It's…faint.
A sudden giggle escaped her – but that was just relief. She'd always hated puns. Proper women did. She scowled down at the scars.
Hold on, where did I get
that
power?
Looking up, she saw Amby Bole lying motionless on the muddy ground. Beyond him soldiers crowded round Aranict, who knelt with her prince, cradling his head on her lap.

And then Precious Thimble caught a glimpse of motion from one of Brys's hands, out from under the cloak someone had thrown over him.

I can't believe it.

Faint stirred, groaned, eyes opening, stared unseeing for a moment, and then focused on the witch. She slowly frowned. ‘I'm not dead?'

‘No. I've just healed you. The Atri-Ceda made it out, too. So did the prince. Your blood bought passage – though how that watery piss you call blood ever passed muster in the eyes of an Elder God, I'll never know.'

‘What – but how? Who saved us? Who dragged us free?'

Sudden coughing from where Amby Bole lay sprawled.

Precious Thimble shook her head. ‘The only one who could, Faint, some idiot from Blackdog Swamp.'

 

The dozen menhirs erupting from the earthworks around Prince Brys Beddict had ruptured the embankment for sixty paces, driving fighting soldiers from their feet – bodies tumbling into the trenches even as enormous mounds of earth and stones poured down, burying scores alive.

The Ve'Gath beneath Grub elected to escape the chaos by leaping forward, across the entire trench, and landed close to where the Forkrul Assail stood. The K'Chain Che'Malle had shattered its halberd some time earlier, and now wielded a double-bladed axe in one hand and a falchion in the other.

The Forkrul Assail stood with his face stretched as if in agony, tilted back, the eyes shut and the mouth stretched wide open. When the Ve'Gath advanced, he gave no sign of awareness. Two swift thumping strides and the falchion swung down, taking the motionless Pure between his right shoulder and neck. The blade tore down through the chest, ripped free in a spray of bone shards.

The other Ve'Gath had followed its kin and now came in from the left. An instant after the first Ve'Gath's attack, its heavy single-bladed axe slammed into the side of the Assail's head in an explosion of skull fragments and gore.

The Forkrul Assail collapsed in red ruin.

Even as Grub struggled to wheel the beast round, two heavy quarrels hissed across – between him and the Ve'Gath's head – and punched into the side of the other Ve'Gath. The impact staggered the giant reptile, and then it fell over, hind legs scything the air.

‘Back! Back across!'

The K'Chain Che'Malle burst into motion, sprinting down the length of the berm – fifteen, twenty paces, and then wheeling to plunge down amidst crowds of Kolansii in the first trench. Weapons hammered down, slashed and chopped a carnage-strewn path through to the other side.

Pike blades glanced across the armour encasing Grub's legs and girdling his hips – and then they were clawing up the other side, winning free atop what remained of the first bank.

Grub looked round for the prince – for any officer – but the chaos reigned on all sides.

Had Brys fallen? There was no way of knowing.

But Grub now saw Letherii soldiers lifting their heads, saw them tracking his thumping trek across the front of the warring forces – watching the Ve'Gath clear attackers from its path with devastating sweeps of its bladed weapons.

They're looking to me.

But I know nothing.

Fool! Nothing but a life of war! Look well – decide what must be done!
Twisting in the saddle, he scanned the climbing slope to his left, squinted at the succession of fortified tiers – and saw soldiers streaming from the highest positions.

But between them and the Letherii…
four trenches. No, this is impossible. We've lost a third of the army against this first trench alone!

Grub faced the Letherii ranks once more. ‘Withdraw!' he shouted. ‘By the prince's command, withdraw!'

And he saw, all along the front, the Letherii soldiers disengaging, shields up as they backed away, others dragging wounded comrades with them.

Another quarrel hissed past – too close. Cursing, Grub kicked at the sides of the Ve'Gath. ‘Down from the ridge – along the front – put those weapons away and find us some shields! Better yet, pick up some of the wounded – as many as you can carry!'

The beast skidded down the slope, righted itself and, staying low beneath the cover of the first berm, began picking its way through heaps of bodies.

Grub stared down at the terrible carnage.
I remember on the wall and that man and all the ones who fell around him – he fought and fought, until they overcame him, brought him down, and then there was a cross and he was nailed to it and the crows spun and screamed and fell from the sky.

I remember the old man on his horse, reaching down to collect me up – and the way he wheeled outside the gate, to stare back – as if he could see all the way we'd come – the bloody road where I was born, where I came alive.

I remember that world. I remember no other.

All of the brave soldiers, I am yours. I was always yours.

 

The Kolansii counter-attack from troops stationed in the next two trenches met the advance of Saphii and Evertine legionnaires in an avalanche of iron fury. Rolling down with the slope, along the wide descent tracks or up and over the berms, they slammed into the Bolkando forces like a storm of studded fists. For all the wild fury of the Saphii, they were not sufficiently armoured against heavy infantry, and the Evertine soldiers were unable to close a solid shieldwall with the Saphii in their midst.

The first lines were overwhelmed, driven underfoot, and the entire Bolkando front reeled back, yielding once more the second berm and then the first trench, and, finally, the first bank of earthworks. With the enemy gaining momentum, the legion was pushed back still further.

Almost none of the Saphii remained by this time, and as the Kolansii rolled out on to level ground they rushed across, only to collide with the legionnaires. They met a solid shieldwall. The impact sent bodies and weapons into the air and the crush made both sides recoil, before closing once more in savage fighting.

Queen Abrastal, still mounted, her sword and forearm painted with blood, forced her charger away from the inside edge of the Evertine line – the animal's muzzle was gushing blood from a frenzied bite against a visored face and its hind flanks were slashed through the cladding, spattering blood with every muscle surge. But she could feel the pounding of its heart and she knew that her horse had never felt more alive than at this moment – it was impossible for her not to grin at the terrible joy in the beast she rode. Impossible to not find herself sharing it.

Still, they'd arrived upon the crux – and looking to the west, she saw the Letherii forces withdrawing from the assault, though their onager salvos continued unabated.

The Pure had done as she had expected – seeking to break her hold here, forcing the Letherii away from any hope of marching to the Spire by blocking the valley – but only if they could succeed in turning the Evertine Legion.

She rode hard round to the back of her legion.

Still held in reserve, the Barghast ranks were readying weapons, and Abrastal caught sight of Warchief Spax, standing atop a small hill of bundled supplies and straining to see over the Evertine ranks to the front of the battle. She saw him turn to her upon hearing her horse's drumming hoofbeats.

She reined in before him.

‘I've never swum in a sea of blood before, Firehair. How was it?'

The queen glanced down to see herself lathered in gore. She shook her sword clear. ‘How fast were those Perish moving?' she asked.

‘A good clip – almost as quickly as a band of White Faces on the raid. If they have anything left after tackling the valley side, they should be almost in position – but Highness, you've seen how many are headed their way.' He shook his head.

‘Can they even slow them down?'

The Warchief shrugged. ‘Depends on the lay of the land, I suppose. If it's a broad front they need to hold…no, they'll barely slow 'em.'

Abrastal cursed under her breath as she swung her mount round. Thought furiously for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Very well. Warchief, take your warriors and the Teblor and move with all haste to support the Perish – whatever you can manage, understood?'

‘You send us to our deaths, Highness.'

‘Aye.' She bared her teeth at him. ‘I show you my coin. You show me your love.'

‘I wasn't complaining, just saying.'

‘We will screen you here.'

‘Highness, you can't hold against this counter-attack – we can see that.'

‘We will screen you for as long as is needed,' Abrastal said firmly. ‘Now get going, Warchief.'

‘If we do not meet again, Firehair, I should tell you' – and Spax leapt down from the mound of supplies – ‘I went and knocked up your daughter.'

‘Gods below!'

‘You'll have years of doting on that little runt – you'll know it for mine 'cause it's got my eyes.'

‘Just get going for Errant's sake!'

Laughing, Spax raised his axe and waved it in a circle over his head.

As one, the White Faces lunged into motion – eastward.

Impressed in spite of herself, Abrastal watched in silence for a moment.

Spax was following her gaze. ‘Aye, we live for this, Firehair. We'll give a good account of ourselves, I promise you.' He looked up at her. ‘Sing songs about us, and remember to tell your court poets, that's Gilk with one k.'

She frowned down at him. ‘How else would it be, you fool?'

‘Fare you well, my queen,' Spax said, bowing even as he turned away.

When he'd trotted a dozen paces Abrastal called out, ‘Spax!'

The Warchief glanced back.

‘Boy or girl, I'll make sure it's named after you – but that's the only favour you'll get!'

Smiling, the Barghast waved his weapon, and then was on his way again.

She watched the Teblor falling in alongside the mass of White Faces, and then she swung round to study her legion.

Sure enough, they were being driven back – these Kolansii heavies were anything but soft. Abrastal adjusted her grip on the sword in her hand, collected the reins once more.
Let us make them remember us.

She was about to kick her horse forward when a rider thundered up on her left. ‘Highness!'

Abrastal stared. A damned Letherii! ‘That was a long ride – what news?'

The messenger – a Bluerose Lancer – saluted. ‘Felicitations from the prince, Highness—'

‘Felicitations? Gods take me – sorry, go on.'

‘Highness, the Pure Forkrul Assail is dead. Only mixed-blood Assail remain in command. The prince hereby informs you that he has disengaged his forces from the Kolansii positions. And that he has established dug-in defences along the onager line on the valley floor and will commit a third of his remaining forces there—'

‘Excuse me, a third?'

The Letherii nodded. ‘Prince begs to inform you, Highness, that he is on his way to your position.'

Abrastal looked round, and then cursed. ‘Take a moment to rest your horse, sir, and then ride with all haste back to Prince Brys. Inform him he'd better hurry.'

But the messenger wasn't interested in resting, and he wheeled his weary horse round and set out at the gallop.

Damn but those lancers know how to ride. And damn me, young man – if we both survive this, I'm going to give you a ride you'll never forget.

Abrastal sighed, and then shook herself. With a low growl, she kicked her horse forward. ‘My standard to the front! Get on with you – follow your damned queen!'

 

Someone had found clothing and armour for the prince. With Aranict close by his side, he stood on the high ground and watched his troops swarming to entrench all along the line of onagers. Lines of soldiers were moving the wounded back on stretchers, while still others retrieved serviceable weapons from the field. And overseeing it all, a young man riding a K'Chain Che'Malle.

Brys was still struggling to regain himself – he did not know how Aranict had managed to save him, or how she even survived her descent into that lifeless warren. While still only half conscious he had heard fragments of conversation, and it seemed that the three foreigners, Faint, Precious Thimble and Amby Bole, had all had a hand in his resurrection. And then he'd caught the name
Mael
.

Old man, we owe you so much. Why are we Beddicts so important to you? But…it wasn't me you did this for, was it? It was for Tehol. Your chosen mortal, the one you would have wanted as your own son.

Rest assured, I'm not complaining.

Someone brought him a helm and he took it with a grateful nod. Tugged it on and fastened the clasp.